Know What You Hate
by jessa-beth
Summary: ONESHOT: Whilst alone and brooding over his current cases at 221b, Sherlock receives a surprise visit from the dangerous James Moriarty. The crime lord taunts our hero, provoking him, and things get quickly out of hand. M for violent Sherlock/Jim smut.


_So, I've never even read anything Sherlock/Jim before,  
>but my friends wanted me to give the pairing a try, so here it is.<br>It's a little out of character, perhaps.  
>But then, it IS just a smut fic, so whatever.<br>Anyway, enjoy!_

_*By the way, I have changed the title a few times, in case you're confused. I can't seem to settle on one.*_

John was nowhere to be found when it happened. Sherlock vaguely recalled his friend mumbling something about a breakfast date, but that memory was hazy. He had been deeply caught up in his own thoughts about his current three cases, and could not be sure what it was exactly that John had said as he'd grabbed his coat and left. Had he been angry with Sherlock? The sleuth didn't know.

All the great detective could be sure of was the sound of unfamiliar footsteps on the stairwell leading up to 221b. He sat, prepared for the worst, with his fingertips pressed together at his lips. The door opened with a long, slow creak. Sherlock fixed his piercing expression on the well-dressed man who appeared gracefully in the threshold. James Moriarty stood looking smart in his expensive suit. Sherlock deduced instantly that Jim had not come intending to carry out his plan to kill him.

"Well, I can't say I haven't been expecting you to call," Sherlock goaded.

The consulting criminal smiled eerily. "I missed you after our last play date, Sherlock." His voice was high. His eyes were cold.

Sherlock's nostrils flared. Hatred crept through every vein. "Play date, was it?" He stood gruffly. "Is that what you call it when you put people's lives in danger, you maniac?"

"Oh, do you mean John, your good doctor?" Moriarty asked offhandedly, raising his dark, shapely eyebrows in amusement. "It's so cute how dearly you care for that little pet." Sherlock's own rage surprised him. He loved John warmly like a brother, and he hated hearing Moriarty's evil lips speak his friend's name that way. He shifted uncomfortably, and his mind suddenly wandered to the handgun he knew John kept in his room. He thought, also, of the various weapons he had hidden around the flat, the nearest being the riding crop stashed beneath his armchair. He found himself clenching and unclenching his fists instinctively. Moriarty laughed coolly. "Hmmm," he cooed, drawing very near to Sherlock. "Oh, daddy's very_ angry._" He let the last word dangle on the air in a high, sing-song note. He was standing so close to Sherlock that he could see every eyelash of Jim's in high definition. It was obvious to him from this vantage point what sort of razor the criminal used every morning. He could tell that Jim used a lime-scented shampoo, and that he had brushed his teeth within the last few hours. He knew, also, that Moriarty was clearly an insomniac. Sherlock smirked down at the shorter man, whose grin was fierce. Moriarty tilted his head like a curious bird. "Oh, Sherlock," he sighed in his most playful voice. "I can see you've got something scheming in that head of yours. You always have, haven't you? Such a hardworking mind you've got." Moriarty's gaze flickered downward. Sherlock's eyes narrowed slightly at that. "I love a hardworking man," he said languidly, taking care to tilt his head up into Sherlock's face so he caught the heat of his breath with every word. "Brainy is sexy, after all." He licked his lips, his eyes glinting knowingly.

Sherlock shoved the man away, disgust etched into every curve of his handsome face.

A high laugh boomed from Moriarty. Its volume was surprising from a figure so small and lean. His intense brow was curled deeply so his face looked truly demonic. "Ooh! Afraid of me, are you, Sherlock?" He stretched his neck out, appearing extraordinarily lizard-like. "Tisk, tisk. I thought you were better than that, friend."

"I'm not your friend," Sherlock snapped.

"Then what are you?" Moriarty walked calmly to stand in front of the detective again, as though he had never been pushed in the first place. "My arch nemesis?" He pulled an ugly face. "That's a bit... _dramatic_, wouldn't you say?"

"Oh, and you're not one for drama," Sherlock spat. "What else would you call the man who wants to kill you?"

Moriarty rolled his eyes. "Oh, my dear, dear Sherlock. How many times do I have to remind you, my dear boy?" His expression glowed. "I'm not intending to simply _kill _you."

"Yes, I know, you are going to _burn_ me," Sherlock mused impatiently. "Care to tell me _when_ I might expect this proverbial flame?"

The man chuckled. "Why, Sherlock!" he exclaimed wildly, gesturing to himself subtly. "Do I look like a man who'd tell all?" He sheathed his hands in his pockets, and rocked himself from side to side childishly. "Because I'm not." His voice had become shockingly low and serious for a man who so resembled a boy.

Sherlock smiled a little, very stiffly. He leaned very close to Moriarty's ear. "Worth a try," he growled. The shorter man shuddered visibly, and Sherlock laughed at him. "Who was it you said was afraid... _Jim_?" Moriarty's expression turned deadly. It gave the sleuth a shock of wariness.

Sherlock prided himself on knowing everyone at a glance. He judged he could understand exactly what a person was going to say or do at any given moment, based on the facts presented. But Moriarty-he was a different story altogether. He was completely unpredictable.

The criminal's chiseled jaw came to meet his in a sudden flash, and Sherlock felt a sharp pain on his lower lip. He leapt away in shock, pressing his fingers to his mouth to suppress the throbbing sensation a little. After a second, when he'd caught his breath, he pulled his hand away from the sore and looked at it. A spot of blood had gathered on his fingertips. "You bit me!" His crinkled brow screamed fury. Moriarty was smiling wickedly. "You're _mad_!"

"Well, yes, very good observation, yes," he mumbled under his breath before laughing loudly. It was a cruel laugh. He inched closer to the taller man, seeming to glide like a snake prepared to strike. Sherlock backed away, positioning himself close to his armchair so that he could retrieve his hidden riding crop if he was forced to defend himself. With Moriarty, even when Sherlock felt certain of one thing, the opposite still ended up being just as likely, so changeable was the criminal mastermind. He could retreat no further if he wished to still be in arm's reach of his closest weapon, so he stopped. He clasped his hands behind his back and straightened himself up. He looked glorious and menacing, just as he hoped. But Moriarty was not a man to feel disturbed by a threatening poise. No; Moriarty crept soundlessly to where Sherlock stood. They were so close, Sherlock could feel his enemy's heart beating mere inches away from his. It made his own beat faster with anxiety. He wished Moriarty would leave. He did not like the thought that John might return at any second and be again in danger of the man who'd once strapped a bomb to his chest.

"What is it you came here for, exactly, Jim?" Sherlock's face was stony.

Moriarty's expression, on the other hand, was full of delirium and excitement. "Oh, Sherlock," he said amusedly. "Isn't it obvious, you big dummy?" He giggled, and rapped his knuckles on Sherlock's forehead. "I'm here to play!" He took Sherlock's head in his hands and held his face steady for a long minute. During that time, Sherlock felt Moriarty's breath on his chin. It gave the detective chills straight to his very bones. Was this fear? They stared determinedly into each other's eyes, sizing one another up. Then, suddenly, Moriarty lashed out again: his teeth sunk hard into the nape of Sherlock's neck. The sleuth roared, enraged by the gesture. He threw him off. He was bleeding a little. He could feel the blood dribble down his collar and become absorbed by the fabric of his shirt. In his fury, Sherlock lunged, tackling the short, fit man to the ground. They struggled, bodies pressed flat against one another as they fought. One of Sherlock's hands groped blindly for the riding crop beneath the chair to their left as they struggled, tangled around each other. He wanted to destroy this man, to tear him open and cause him anguish. He knew Moriarty wished the same for him, but he could not think how. He could not read the man, and that drove him absolutely wild.

"Ooh!" squealed the consulting criminal as he wrestled Sherlock under him and pinned him to the floorboards with his knees. "Someone's certainly_ frisky_ today!" Moriarty's expensive suit was scuffed, but he didn't seem to care. He seemed perfectly overjoyed, in fact. He had a hand at Sherlock's throat as he straddled him.

While the detective gasped and sputtered for air, Moriarty spoke to him. "Such a shame to see you unable to speak, Sherlock." He shook his head in mock pity. "You do have _such_ a pretty voice, you know. I bet that voice could make _anyone_ hard, hmm? Couldn't it?" He reached between their bodies with the arm that was not choking the life out of Sherlock, and grabbed his enemy's crotch. Sherlock writhed helplessly. His face was going red from the pressure of breathlessness mixed with unwarranted arousal. This made Moriarty laugh harder. "Ooh, struggle, Sherlock, yes," he encouraged in an oddly soothing voice. "Please, do fight back, dear boy. It makes me hot, don't you know?"

Indeed, Sherlock could feel the criminal hardening through the layers of their trousers. His groin was pulsing against Sherlock's belly. It sent a shiver of simultaneous disgust and excitement to his cock, which throbbed greedily. It made him feel sick. With a final burst of effort, his bumbling fingers at last found the riding crop beneath the skirt of his armchair. He closed his hand tightly around its grip, and thrashed Moriarty's arm with the thing so the man released him.

Sherlock was panting, regaining the feeling to his limbs as he forced Moriarty onto the floor beside him. He seemed to be having trouble thinking, probably due to how little air his brain had just been receiving. He was still coughing. The little psychopath was at his mercy then, stuck upon his stomach and trying to claw his way toward to the door though to no avail. Sherlock held him down, and lashed out with the crop. It came down hard upon the crime lord's back, and he cried out. The sound sent a jolt of confusing delight to Sherlock's core. He did it again. He could feel Moriarty wince beneath him, and his own body's reaction terrified him. The knowledge that he was causing this man pain created so much excitement within him that he let out a completely involuntary grunt as he whipped Moriarty again.

"Aha!" Moriarty sang, his face pressed to the wooden floor. "I knew you'd play with me, daddy, I knew it," he grumbled eagerly, "and I have been so _very _naughty, haven't I?"

"Oh, shut up," Sherlock hissed, shifting a little so that the seat of Moriarty's pants was exposed to him.

The man stopped struggling, then. "Aren't you going to hurt me, Sherlock Holmes?" he taunted. "You know you want to. You know you want to hurt me, don't you?" There was an irritatingly confident laugh in his teasing tone of voice which made Sherlock growl from somewhere deep inside him.

Hurt him? _Of course he was going to hurt him_. He had his forearm pressed to the back of Moriarty's neck so that he could not move from his position. His free arm held the riding crop, which he drew back without hesitation. With all his strength, Sherlock let his arm come down. Judging by the amount of pressure he'd intentionally applied, and from the manner in which Moriarty was now squirming and moaning, the blow was most certainly bruising to the criminal's bottom. He did it again, and then again. Every time it befell him, Moriarty groaned. Sherlock knew it was more than agony. He knew sexual excitement well enough to recognize it in a sound like that. Something about Moriarty's sexual desire made Sherlock's own loins grow ready and eager. He was shaking a little as he whipped the criminal one more time.

"Come on, now, handsome," Moriarty sneered after the cracking blow. "I _know_ you can do better than _that_." He wriggled his backside at Sherlock, whose stomach seemed to drop at the sight. His mind felt clouded. It was so confusing. He would not think. He _could _not think. All his blood had rushed between his legs, and there seemed none left in him to fuel the brain he cherished, the brain he needed to guide him now.

The whole situation was impossible, but it was really happening. Sherlock let the whipping end of his crop lightly caress the round shape of Moriarty's arse. A tiny moan escaped the man with the power, and in this moment of weakness, Moriarty began to fight back again. He rolled over, forcing Sherlock to fall over. The criminal tried to get to his feet, but Sherlock grabbed him round the ankles and tugged him to the floor again. Without taking a moment to think, Sherlock clutched Moriarty to him hard so he could not escape, and began to undo the shorter man's belt. He had the riding crop clutched between his teeth. Moriarty's nails were digging into Sherlock's arms, but he ignored the pain, even as the blood began to run. He used the belt to still the struggling man's arms. Moriarty was much more complacent when he could not move his hands. Sherlock flipped him so he was on his hands and knees, and pulled down the expensive trousers so they pooled around his knees. Sherlock's breath caught at the sight of his arch enemy's bare arse in front of him. Both cheeks were a deep pink color from the whacks he'd just received. His loins were pulsing with the desire to conquer him, to own the criminal's body and to feel-temporarily-like the victor in their funny little game. Moriarty was laughing. Sherlock watched his backside rotating in the air, offering itself to him. His body showed him willing. That laughter was most disconcerting, yet it only seemed to egg Sherlock on.

Sherlock undid his own trousers, feeling himself start to salivate around the riding crop he still had in his bite.

Moriarty's laughter slowed. He started to writhe again, but with his arms belted and his pelvis held in place by Sherlock's stern hands, he couldn't get away. "Go on," hissed Moriarty through clenched teeth. "Go on and fuck me, you poor fool."

"Shut up!" Sherlock shouted suddenly, giving Moriarty a short swat on a buttock with the crop again. The man wailed aloud at the pain of the thing hitting his bare flesh. The sound deeply enticed Sherlock. He hit him again, and then again. His own cock was growing very sore from unsatisfied need. His other hand moved from Moriarty's waist to his throat, holding him steady with the threat of crushing his windpipe. Still, the psycho's laughter did not falter.

"Oh," he moaned through his laughter in a stifled voice, "why will you not just fuck me and get it _over_ with, already?"

"Who exactly do you think is in charge here?" Sherlock snarled, whipping him again so that he bucked uncontrollably. "You have been extremely nasty," he rumbled in his deepest, silkiest voice. "And that merits punishment, you filthy monster."

An obvious shiver ran through Moriarty's body. "Ooh, come to teach me a lesson, have you, sir?" He laughed even louder, and at that horrible taunt, Sherlock spit upon the man's arse hole and dove his fingers inside him with no warning.

Moriarty grunted appreciatively, clearly enjoy the pain of it. Sherlock tightened his grip around his neck, choking him as he stretched the man from the inside. He had barely prepared the way before he removed his long fingers and pressed his eager cock to his enemy's offering. "Yes," Moriarty cooed in a strained voice through Sherlock's grasp. "Please, do punish me, Mr. Holmes. Show me how very naughty I've been,"

Sherlock plunged into him hard. It hurt them both. Moriarty's body was experiencing convulsions from the glorious combination of agony and ecstasy. The sensations seemed to light Sherlock aflame. He buried himself completely within the dangerous man, holding inside there for a minute to catch his breath. Moriarty could not struggle, for any movement would cause serious pain in the muscles that gave way for Sherlock's large cock. He was also breathing improperly because of Sherlock's palm at his neck. It was all perfect. A growl escaped Sherlock's throat as he began fucking him hard. Moriarty's body responded well to it. He seemed to enjoy Sherlock's deep moans. Sherlock, on the other hand, did not appreciate Moriarty's muffled laughter. No; he gripped the man's neck so tightly that he suddenly stopped emitting any sound at all above a high squeak. Sherlock reveled in those squeals. This control was thrilling. The rush of it all had him filling up Moriarty in long, deep strokes. He struck Moriarty's arse with the crop as hard as he could with every thrust. The blood was gathering at the very surface of Moriarty's skin. Sherlock thought gleefully that with a few more whacks, he might break skin and let that blood flow. He went at it with no qualms, whipping the criminal furiously as he fucked him with increasing vigor.

This violent rhythm went on and on until Sherlock could not feel Moriarty's breath on his arm anymore. He released the man's neck so that he gulped down the air gratefully. That relief seemed to undo him. His back arched. He shouted madly, a great laugh evident in the tone of his climax. The psychopath came hard, and Sherlock loved being the cause of it. He loved the power. He allowed one more sharp blow to Moriarty's purpling arse with his crop before dropping it. As Moriarty shuddered, still coming, Sherlock dug his fingernails hard into the damaged flesh of the man's buttocks. Blood flowed freely, and the criminal shrieked happily at the sensation. Sherlock took those hips in his palms and fucked him deeply still, long after Moriarty's release.

As Sherlock rammed him pitilessly, Moriarty hissed, "I want to feel you burn in me for days. It's only fair before I burn_ you_."

"You will not," Sherlock growled heartily between dramatic thrusts.

"So stop me," cried the man who had become a sheath for Sherlock's cock. "I _dare_ you to use that gorgeous brain of yours and stop me before I get to you."

Sherlock leaned forward, and took Moriarty's hair into his pretty fist. He tugged the criminal's head back so his ear was level with Sherlock's lips. "I will," said he, in the lowest purr imaginable. It only took a few more seconds before Sherlock felt the gut-wrenching orgasm tear through him. He withdrew an instant afterwards, and rolled away from him, snatching up the riding crop for protection again. He stretched out, leaning his back against the armchair, panting intensely. "Get out," snapped Sherlock. Moriarty's sickening smile was as sour as it could ever have been.

"No cuddle?" he joked, looking devious.

"I said," Sherlock declared more firmly, "get the bloody hell out of my flat." He slapped the crime lord's naked thigh as he stumbled to his feet, invoking a whine of shock and pain from the man which sent Sherlock's loins aflame again. "Now go."

"I can't," he said, offering Sherlock his arms with a single eyebrow raised teasingly. He looked, and realized that the belt still had him bound. The mere sight of that vulnerable state could have thrown him over the edge again. He hesitated for a moment, his grey eyes drinking in the sight of this powerless Moriarty. Then, certain he would regret this later (but also excited by the fact), Sherlock undid the belt. Moriarty reaffixed his trousers to his thin legs, and showed himself to the door. "It's been a pleasure, Sherlock." he said in his most horrendously sweet voice. "Catch you later, pretty boy." At that, he was gone.

221b fell into a low silence. The buzz of the quiet seemed deafeningly boring to Sherlock, but he busied himself with cleaning the floor where Moriarty had climaxed. When he had finished, he threw himself into his arm chair, moping darkly. It took a good hour before his mind was steady enough to return to the facts of his cases. He sat unmoving for a long time, brooding over the evidence in his mind. The only light in the flat was that which poured in from the window. Sherlock looked a right mess, curled up in shadow when John returned home.

His flat mate said nothing, but flipped the lights on for him, and proceeded to kitchen to prepare lunch. Sherlock felt a deep rush of gratitude towards John. Somehow his experience with Moriarty had caused him to appreciate his friend all that much more. He expressed it by letting his touch linger an extra moment on John's back when he patted him encouragingly later that day.

One thing was certain: he was absolutely _never _going to bring up what had transpired in Baker Street that morning. Never.

_Thanks for reading!_


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